the wax drips from the candle, eventually the wick must wither into ash and die. the flame will flicker and spit out it's last light. the wax dries, but it's useless now. there is no phoenix.
a farewell to arms. i stand on this hilltop, breaking the pencils that led me to this place. i guess it isn't a hilltop, more like a grave now. i dug it with words, terrible and trite.
epitaph: clay pigeon for the elite. broken and shattered. they were always better.
the salt dried on my face. little trails that you can follow. is this not real enough for you? is this being fake? is this me trying to hard? oops, i will try to do worse. just for you. i didn't mean to sound good or anything. i'm sorry i couldn't live up to your standards, couldn't make your rules. i forgot that you were head of writing dept. of live journal.
i tried. i failed. i quit. that should go under my epitaph.